I KNOW I’ve written before about the many wonderful things about being pregnant but, in truth, there are also a few horrifying things that pregnancy brings. For example, the hospital gave us a whole load of literature to read, and one section was specifically for the dads. It was all about how they should be super supportive and as helpful as possible, so I conspicuously placed it next to hubby on the couch and told him he might be interested in passing his eye over it. It took several subtle hints before he finally resigned himself to the fact that he was going to have to at least glance at it.
I sat there throwing sideways looks, hoping he was deeply immersed in it, when he suddenly burst into fits of laughter. It wasn’t quite the reaction I was expecting, so I immediately demanded to know what the problem was. He told me how the book was explaining that his partner may become inexplicably irritable and moody and hormonal. What was so funny about that, I asked. “Well, you’ve always been like that”, came the reply. So yeah, the first horrible thing that pregnancy brings is that your husband suddenly becomes a git.
The second is childbirth. You know, actually having to push out that baby that’s been growing exponentially inside you for many, many months. (If you’re eating or are of a weak disposition, look away now. Still here? You were warned.) Anything that involves lots of tearing of flesh, blood and slime can’t exactly be described as a hoot, can it? Frankly, I had hoped that by the time I got pregnant, babies would arrive into the big, bad world by teleportation, but it seems science hasn’t moved on as much as I’d hoped. (Probably too busy trying to find a cure for cancer and all that lark.)
But that comes at the end. In the meantime, I have something equally as disturbing to deal with. Something that disgusts me to my very core and will make it difficult for me to look at myself in a mirror ever again. Something from which I may never recover, even if I live to be a million – my belly button will basically turn inside out. That cavernous crimple in the middle of my stomach will be pushed out by the force and size of the baby and become a large lump. My ‘inny’ will become an ‘outty’. Even more disturbingly, I read on some pregnancy site that the belly button “normally” goes back in after birth. Never has the word “normally” struck such fear into my heart. Never have I felt so threatened by a single word. Never has a Damocles sword swung over my head so menacingly.
And it’s already starting to happen. I’ve already noticed that my belly button isn’t as deep as it used to be. What once was a deep, dark, cavernous cave the likes of which the Famous Five would be all too eager to investigate, has now turned into a small inlet even Dora the Explorer would pass up. And there’s no way to stop it. Pretty soon it will be something that will only attract the attention of mountain goats. The horror!
Of course, hubby finds fun in the fact that I could potentially be permanently physically deformed. That I could have a long-term, lasting lump. My navel nightmare has been a source of great amusement for him. Men can be so selfish, can’t they? I mean, my belly button might never go back to normal, but at least my boot can be surgically removed from his backside.